you to think
a man
can break a woman
because
this (points to her
self) was broken before
your dad
joined the picture.
And furthermore,
this (points
to herself
and then me) and this
can be fixed.”
(I stare. My mother
has shocked me
before, yes, but
this time she does it
in a good way.)
She puts down her drink
(baby steps).
“I know I have been
—unavailable—
but a mother can tell
when her baby’s heart
is broken.”
She hugs me.
Through the gin and tonic breath,
and the years,
I smell
a tiny, faraway trace
of a closeness
we used to have—
a safety I forgot existed.
I resist for
a moment,
but then
my instinct
for
survival
kicks in.
I pull her in
and she lets me
cry. I babble
and bubble
and effervesce.
I sob
like a baby,
and grope
for
relief
in her
embrace.
Believe it or not, I find it.
Imagine a Chess Board
I can see
all the potential
moves.
I go over
the possibilities as
well as their consequences
hourly.
When I dream of
you grown up
and married
to a Random Chick
like me,
I kind of
want to puke,
but I can’t let
my love for you
make decisions
for me.
As you know,
all I really got
is me—
Dedicated
Do you remember when we first met?
We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl.
Nothing compares to you.
Tell me, baby, where did I go wrong?
For you I’d bleed myself dry.
We belong together.
You’re just like me, only beautiful.
Forever, trust in who we are,
nothing else matters.
Reply
I do believe that I’ve had enough.
Do It Once, Twice, Right
Gone,
I say
and walk away.
Maybe if I think
hard enough
about not thinking,
try
as hard as
all get out,
I’ll be forgiven,
and he’ll be forgot.
Mixed
Hanging upside down
from my bed,
listening
to playlists
that chronicle
our entire
relationship.
They have titles like
First Stare and Final Glare.
I sit up,
take a swig
of gin and tonic,
and dwell.
I don’t mean to be
a traitor to my generation,
but why
didn’t I
listen to my mother?
Not what she said
(clearly, that’s BS),
but what she whispered
through all that
wasted time,
those sad sorry
lines
I now recite on cue.
What are you going to do?
Your friends
were mine first. All you
got is a drunk mom
to keep
you
going on—
Date Night
Mom and I
decide
to get
dressed up
and go for Thai.
Then maybe a movie—
a romantic comedy.
“ ’Cause love is funny,”
I say as she applies
eyeliner.
“Exactly,”
she says with a laugh
almost
as sarcastic
as mine.
Thanks. For Nothing.
Just so you know
I will never feel the same
about anyone.
You ripped out my heart and
stomped on it, then
put it back, all broke the hell up.
You are a bitch.
The Line
I know you’re not perfect.
Believe me, I know.
But I never felt that way, either,
and never will again.
I thought my dad leaving
was bad.
I thought my mom crumbling
sucked.
Don’t worry.
From now on,
if I feel love happening,
I’ll pull my heart back
into myself
and keep walking.
Because losing real love
is too close
to suicide.
Don’t go beating
yourself up
on my account.
Don’t go saying
no matter
how hard you try
nothing goes your way.
Boy,
we were
the Real Deal,
and I would’ve
followed you
to forever,
15 or not,
but you had to
bring your hands
into it.
I could’ve carried all your pain, and you,
but
you
hurt me
physically,
and that’s where I draw the line.
I still love you, though, to be honest.
Can we be friends?
This is Why I Have Abandonment Issues
I’d rather erase you
from my life,
take a pill to
dissolve
every memory of you,
end you like you ended me.
Keep the pictures.
Keep the notebooks.
Keep your lies.
I don’t want them.
And I don’t want to be
your friend.
Piss off.
Later
I stare at rainbow words
trickling down the whiteboard:
letters that signify chemicals,
compounds,
formulas—
it’s all chaos to me.
Peter X slides into the seat
next to me
and says nothing
as usual.
But after a moment,
I know—I feel—
he is watching me.
As a kind of confirmation, the artificial snap-
shot sound says he’s taking
a picture.
He slides, or rather screeches, his desk
closer to mine, and we wait for the
image to appear.
I look like me not making
eye contact
with myself.
Even I can’t tell what I’m thinking.
“You know,”
Peter X says,
“I can go back in time
through these pictures,
but I prefer to go forward.”
Peter X goes to slide to
another picture, and
I get this urge
to touch him, to pull him
close and kiss
the scar above his eyebrow.
(Baby steps.)
I put my index finger next to his on the screen.
I stop him from sliding me away.
Random Boy’s hold on my heart
is such
that even now
when we are broken in two,
I feel like I’m cheating.
I trace the long crack on the screen
dissecting my face into now and then.
“Sorry about
everything,”
I tell him,
“your phone
and your . . .”
“Still works,”
he says,
his finger
sliding me back and forth
across his screen.
“Still a million perfect
pictures yet to take.”
I watch his lips
as he smiles.
“Thanks for trying to defend me,”
I say. “I’m sorry . . .”
“No thanks needed.
No apologies either.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Well, what then?”
“Just a promise.”
I nod, urging him to explain.
“Swear to me
that no matter what happens,
no matter how hurt you get,
you’ll still be
that serial killer writer,
that strong, beautiful chick
I was obsessed with
in high school. Promise me
you’ll always go down swinging,
and that you’ll get back up
with that smile that
could corrupt a saint.”
He slides past my picture
finally,
and
the viewfinder slowly spirals open,
clear,
ready
for whatever
comes
next.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Carl and Jane for all the love and support a writer could want.
Thanks to my mom and dad for filling my childhood with books and love. Thanks to Pete, Mike, Pat, Cindy, and Natalie for all of the conversation and laughter. Thanks to Richard for taking me to bookstores to browse.
Thanks to Toni and Senior for watching Jane while I wrote a lot of this book.
Thanks to my editor, Nicole Frail, and everyone at Sky Pony Press for believing in my book.
Thanks to my super duper betas—Karen Amanda Hooper, Megan McBride, and Natalie Bahm. I believe publication calls for another trip to Disney.
Thanks to R. Mata and Laurie Devers for being early readers and for being awesome.
Thanks to my agent, Lana Popovic, for having my back.
Thanks to all my professors and classmates at UAF and SJU, and to all of the very special teachers before that who went above and beyond for me.
Thank you all so much.
The Lost Marble Notebook of Forgotten Girl & Random Boy Page 10
